


Flightless

by vvinterdean



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-03-13 19:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3393920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vvinterdean/pseuds/vvinterdean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was dead and John wanted nothing more than to join him. But when John jumped off a building (guess where he got the idea), he didn't die. A shame, he thought. Instead, he awoke in a hospital, paralyzed from the waist down, being watched over by the very-much-alive Sherlock Holmes. The surprisingly not-dead detective made a promise then and there to help John walk again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fall of Icarus

Lonely streets and empty buses. That's all that was left.

Rainy days and a cityscape that hid the sky. This wasn't home. This was bitterness. This was anger. This was betrayal by a good friend.

Everything was mundane. Any feeble attempt at something more was quickly silenced by thought. Everyday tasks were becoming harder to do. Everything brought back memories of that man.

Oh, that man.

"Prick."

The word rolled easily off John Watson's tongue.

He tried so hard to distance himself from Sherlock, to forget, to erase what was and is no longer. He wasn't mad. No... He didn't _want_ to be mad. He wanted peace.

"YOU BLOODY PRICK!"

The mug flew across the room and shattered against the wall. Broken... Just like _him_.

How many tears had John Watson shed? How many more _could_ he shed? It had been a year. Surely the tears would stop soon. Surely this was the beginning of the end of suffering.

"Oh god, Sherlock, please."

He knew, no matter how much he begged or how hard he prayed, Sherlock Holmes was gone. Dead.

Dead.

_Dead._

_**Dead.** _

_"Please."_

He felt that word was overused. He had said it enough lately; begging for peace, for relief from this aching emptiness in his hollow chest.

A gentle tap at the door brought John back from this dark abyss of thought.

"Everything alright, John? I thought I heard yelling." Mrs. Hudson, too, had been affected by the loss of their great detective. She was wary, timid, hesitant these days.

John gave a simple 'I'm fine'. He needed to be alone. That's what he desired most these days: privacy.

A police car drove by just then, reminding John so much of the days spent with his detective. Their first case, when Sherlock had deduced John's life story. Amazing, John had called him. Infuriating as he was, Sherlock was amazing. He was so mysterious, too. Here, John chuckled to himself as he remembered the smirk. That stupid smirk that stupid Sherlock would always wear on his stupid, brilliant face.

"The bastard." John picked up the shattered mug, tossing the pieces lazily in the trash.

The window was open, letting in the sounds of the city. Cars, shops, people. Life was everywhere, except 221B. Sherlock had died and taken John with him. Now John was just a shell. An empty, hollow shell.

A quick glance out the window made up John's mind. He scrawled a note to Mrs. Hudson, leaving it on the cluttered kitchen table.

_'Off to find Sherlock. Thank you for everything._

_Yours,_

_John Watson'_

He moved through the room, searching for something he couldn't quite name. Instead of finding any small item, John found himself standing in front of Sherlock's former bedroom. This door had remained closed for an entire year. Now it was finally time to open it once more.

Everything was as Sherlock had left it that day. Papers, clothes, things in little vials, all strewn about the room in some controlled chaos. It was almost like stepping back in time. John made his way to the bed where a layer of dust had formed atop the sheets. He simply sat there as Sherlock must have done many a time, staring at nothing in particular. It was odd how at peace John was just by being in this room. He felt a warm numbness filling him up as he breathed deeply, all worry gone from his body. He was ready. It was time to go.

As John left the room he could have _sworn_ he caught a faint whiff of cloves and coffee, Sherlock's signature blend of sustenance. The army doctor moved with a purpose now. He made his way to the open window, onto the fire escape and up to the roof. A million images and memories flooded his mind. He remembered that day, that single, fateful day when Sherlock had... when he had...

Just then a loud clap of thunder shook the ground beneath John's feet. He looked into the angry sky just as the first few droplets of rain hit his face. This wasn't really how he'd planned it, but then again, suicide isn't very predictable in the first place.

Picking his way across the roof, John found himself at the edge, looking down on the city. It was no longer friendly and bustling. It was dark, and grey, and sad, just like John. It appeared someone had seen him. Let them watch. What did it matter?

John breathed a laugh as the first tears fell. This was it then. The end. The grand finale of Dr. John Watson. A rather shoddy finale, really, but it was too late to turn back now. Sherlock hadn't turned back so why should John? This was a test, in John's mind. A test of willpower versus courage.

In the end, willpower won. John looked across the city one last time.

"Damn you, Sherlock Holmes."

The fall was quick. Quicker than John had expected. His last thought wasn't of Sherlock, or peace, or regret. His last thought was of his blog, oddly enough. He hadn't touched it in so long. Should he have written a final post? Probably too late now, seeing as he was falling towards imminent death. For a fleeting second John felt he could fly. He _was_ flying. Flying through the city, soaring across time and space, free at last, no longer burdened by trivial things. He was free to be with Sherlock now.

Except he wasn't free. The flying sensation was lessening. Instead, he was filled with a dull roar. And _everything hurt._ And then John realized where he was. Not heaven. Not even close. A hospital. That's where he was. And he wasn't dead, either. On the contrary, he was quite alive. A pity, really. He wasn't of any use anymore. He was just taking up space.

He could hear something now. Something above the dull roar. It was the sound of someone crying. Someone was crying beside him and their hand was wrapped around his. He could feel the warmth of their skin against his.

Mrs. Hudson. That's the only conceivable answer. She was here, tending to John as she always had.

John breathed deeply, shifting his weight and wincing as pain wracked his broken body.

The crying stopped.

"John?" It was a hoarse whisper, much deeper than Mrs. Hudson's voice.

Lestrade? Mycroft?

"John?" this time the voice was clearer, albeit slightly more frantic.

He knew that voice. The voice that haunted him. The voice that made him fly. A small smirk settled on his face.

"Thought you were dead, Sher."

And then he was hit with a full-force hug that seemed to shatter the poor army doctor's body beyond repair. He didn't mind. He brought his undamaged hand up to rest on Sherlock's shoulder. He missed this shoulder. Hell, he missed _Sherlock._

"What have you done? What have you _done?"_ Sherlock cried over and over, clinging to John as if he would fly away.

John simply lay there, numb with shock, patting Sherlock clumsily and offering feeble words of comfort. Sherlock was here. He was alive and back in John's life.

A curt knock on the door made them break apart as a doctor walked in, holding a clipboard. He looked too young to be a doctor, in John's opinion. They were getting younger and younger every year.

"Dr. Watson. Glad to see you're awake. How are you feeling?" The young man smiled, his tone much too cheery for such a dour situation.

"Well seeing as I've just fallen off a building, I'm a bit sore." John said, fighting to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

"Yes, that's to be expected. You had a nasty fall there. I'll set you up with more morphine." The doctor flipped through his clipboard.

There was something he wasn't telling John. Something he was hiding behind that smile.

"You and your er... brother can visit a bit more. I'll be back shortly." The young doctor nodded and left, shutting the door behind him.

John blinked dumbly for a second.

"Brother?" he murmured.

"It's the only way they'd let me in to see you." Sherlock said, sitting on the bed.

They sat in silence for several seconds before making eye contact and descending into a fit of hushed laughter. Every wheeze hurt John, but he couldn't care less at this point. He was just glad to be here with his 'brother' after so long apart. As the laughter died down, Sherlock set a hand on John's leg, careful not to hurt him.

"I did miss you, John..." Sherlock said softly, looking at the ground.

It hurt. Everything hurt. Not a physical ache, but an emotional one. John wanted to scream, to yell at Sherlock, to hit him and make Sherlock hurt as John had without him. But instead, John sighed deeply and looked out the window.

"So why did you stay away?" He said quietly.

He felt Sherlock's body tense slightly as John's words cut into him.

"It was for your own good. Really, it was." Sherlock whispered more to himself than to John.

He was close to tears. John could hear it in his voice. Sherlock Holmes was going to cry and it was all John's fault. He felt bad, but really, Sherlock deserved to suffer. He deserved to hurt. He had left John a broken mess. It was time to pay his dues.

"Well... Just... just don't leave again, you stupid bastard." John said firmly, smiling coyly when he caught Sherlock's eye.

Sherlock smirked, glancing around the room.

"How long was I out?" John asked, eager to change the subject.

"Two weeks and a day. They had to keep you sedated until you healed up a bit." Sherlock spoke with his back to John, surveying a rather garish portrait on the wall.

"And were you here-"

"The whole time." Sherlock murmured softly.

John felt a pang of guilt hit him as Sherlock spoke. He must have been incredibly worried about John to stay by his side for so long. Sherlock had always had little patience when it came to just sitting around doing nothing. Plus, not knowing whether or not John would be okay must have been pure torture for him...

Another knock on the door. The young doctor from before came in, followed by two nurses. They no longer wore smiles.

"Mr. Watson if you could head to the lobby please." The doctor spoke curtly, not looking up from his clipboard.

Sherlock stood, resuming his role as John's brother. The _other_ Mr. Watson. Before leaving the room he turned to John, touching his hand.

"I'll see you soon." He murmured, his touch lingering.

It took John a moment to realize Sherlock was simply acting the part of the caring brother.

"Yeah..." he said dumbly, unable to think of a proper response.

Sherlock smirked and squeezed John's hand before leaving the room.

The young doctor shut the door. He didn't look so young anymore. His face was wearied and full of concern. Everyone wore solemn expressions.

"Dr. Watson, I'm afraid I have some bad news." the doctor paused, glancing at John.

"Go on." John nodded, dreading what the doctor might say.

"While most of your injuries were minor, there were some that, unfortunately, were unable to be corrected." The young man wore a slightly pained expression, as if he were struggling to get the words out.

"What do you mean? What's wrong?" John tried to sit up, but a sharp pain coursed through him and landed him flat on his back.

"Well, you see, when you fell, you landed in a near vertical position, which is most likely what spared you. Unfortunately, that landing shattered the lower vertebrates of your spine." Another pause, another glance.

"And...?" John said, fearing the worst.

The doctor looked anywhere but at John.

"Dr. Watson, I'm sorry. You've been paralyzed from the waist down."

Paralyzed... Useless... A burden...

"You have to understand, we did all that we could. We have some of the top surgeons in the country here, but there was just nothing left to save."

John stared at the ceiling, his eyes welling up with tears. He swallowed hard, and when he spoke he fought to keep his voice even.

"Does Sherlock know?"

"No. We didn't know the full extent of-"

"Could you tell him, please?" John's voice shook as the first tear rolled across his temple, disappearing into his hair.

The doctor nodded, giving John a pitying look.

"Can I get you anything? Food? A book?" The doctor asked as he turned to leave.

"I'm fine." John whispered, shaking with pent-up emotion.

Then he was alone.

Out in the lobby, Sherlock was glancing around, studying each person in turn. He hadn't had a case in over a year and he was absolutely itching to get back to work. Studying regular people was becoming too boring. He needed a challenge, something stimulating.

His head snapped up when someone called his name. It was the doctor from before. He was gesturing for Sherlock to accompany him to a side room.

"Have a seat." the doctor said after they were shut in the little room.

"Is something the matter? Is John okay?" Sherlock asked, reading the doctor's expression.

"Well, you see, when John fell he sustained a few critical injuries. Unfortunately these injuries have left him fairly immobile. He's been paralyzed from the waist down."

Sherlock stared. Everything in his brain was screaming that this information was false and to reject it, but the doctor's face said it all.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Watson. I truly am. If there's anything I can do for you, I'll see that it gets done."

Sherlock looked at the young man. He was handsome. And a newlywed, according to the ring on his finger. His wife was expecting twins. He was standing near the door, turned slightly away from Sherlock, as if he feared Sherlock would attack.

"What are the chances of a full recovery?" Sherlock asked softly.

This is where the doctor tensed slightly. He had hoped his job was done. Sherlock noticed, but didn't say anything.

"Most, if not all, of his injuries should be fully healed within 6 months or so, with proper rehabilitation. He'll be cleared for discharge within a month's time."

"What about walking? Will he ever be able to walk again?" Sherlock gripped the edge of the seat. He already knew the answer.

"The chances of him walking again are less than one percent. It's just not going to happen. I'm sorry, Mr. Watson."

With that, the doctor exited the room, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts. And oh, did he think.

He thought of John. Poor, poor John. How was he coping? Would he be okay? He was already in such an unstable condition to begin with...

Sherlock stood. John was here because of him. Because Sherlock had 'died' and John wanted to join him. And that's why Sherlock decided it was his duty to help John walk again. He would fix what he had broken.

John lay in the hospital bed, staring intently at the ceiling. His pillow was soaked with tears and his eyes were red and stinging. His breath came in small gasps and was released as silent sobs. He was fighting so hard to pull himself together that he didn't notice when Sherlock entered the room.

Sherlock's heart ached, seeing his only friend in such a fragile state. He wanted nothing more than to fix everything, to go back in time and stop John from jumping.

"John." Sherlock said, trying his best to be strong for his friend.

John looked at Sherlock, with tears streaming from his eyes.

"I'll be fine." John's voice cracked as he smiled a watery smile that broke Sherlock's heart.

Sherlock strode across the room, pulling John into another tight hug.

"I'm so sorry, John. I'm so  _so_  sorry. I _will_ make this right." Sherlock whispered severely, fighting to keep his emotions in check.

He felt John's warm tears soaking through his shirt and simply held him as he cried. There was nothing more to be said. John clutched Sherlock tightly as his body shook with silent sobs. He would take in a ragged breath every few seconds then let it out, trying to compose himself. That's what hurt Sherlock more than anything. Knowing how hard John was trying to remain calm, cool, and collected. The army doctor was trying to think about it from a medical standpoint, but Sherlock knew that wasn't any consolation.

"I'm tired, Sher." John mumbled into Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock detached himself from John. He looked at the broken man before him, observing the different wires and tubes that were connected to him. This wasn't John Watson. That man was gone and these were the remnants.

"I'm tired too, John." Sherlock sighed, the words coming true as he said them.

This is how the next several weeks passed. The calm that surrounded them was hanging by a thread as they began to grasp the severity of John's injuries. Twenty-eight days passed before John was even _considered_ for release. His wounds had healed enough and his psych evaluations had checked out clear. The doctor had even taken his tubes out this morning. He had been given the green light to go home.

There was just one problem: how?

How would he get home? How would he even get out of bed? His legs were useless, and Sherlock was nowhere to be found. Luckily a nurse came in, pushing a wheelchair. She offered to help John get dressed and prepared for discharge.

"Where is Sherlock? I'd like him here." John said, sitting up, though it still caused him pain.

"I'll go get him." the nurse smiled kindly, leaving the room.

John sighed. He'd much rather have Sherlock dress him than some random _female_ nurse.

"What do you need, John? How can I help?" Sherlock came in, a look of worry evident on his face.

The stupid, brilliant man. Always worrying these days.

"It's just... I need to get dressed and I'll need... help." the word tasted bitter coming out of his mouth.

John never asked for help. He prided himself on his independence. Yet here he was.

"I suppose the polite thing to do would be to assist you, though if you'd rather try it yourself..." Sherlock trailed off.

He had read John's body language, the way the latter was steeling himself. Sherlock knew John hated asking for help. The army doctor gave a curt nod and began removing his hospital gown. He held out his hand, taking the shirt that Sherlock offered. He managed to get that article of clothing on just fine. Next came the trousers.

John began pulling them on the first leg, but was having trouble with the second. Hard as he tried, he just couldn't bend it. He didn't want to look a fool in front of his friend so he remained silent as he struggled. Sherlock was gazing out the window, giving John his privacy.

"Damn." John muttered, the trousers falling to the floor.

Sherlock turned around, observing the scene before him. John was giving him a pitiful look.

"A little help, Sherlock?" he chuckled sadly.

The detective nodded. He picked up the fallen article of clothing, and dressed the disabled doctor, never once treating John like anything less than the great, great man that he was.

Once John was fully dressed and cleaned up, he felt slightly better. He had just needed to get out of that damned gown.

"Shall we go, John?" Sherlock pushed the wheelchair closer to the bed.

This was it. This was the moment John had been dreading. There was roughly a two foot gap from the bed to the seat of the wheelchair.

John needn't say anything. Sherlock was already there, supporting his weight as the doctor made the transition from bed to wheelchair. He was horribly embarrassed. He felt absolutely helpless. He couldn't even get his trousers on, for Christ's sake. Was this what his life was going to be like from now on?

John thought hard. No... He knew other men who had managed to adapt quite well to a fairly immobile life. He had served with a man who lost both his legs in battle. He had to become a successful manager of his own company. John just had to keep positive thoughts like that in mind. He could overcome this. But there was something he might not be able to overcome...

As Sherlock wheeled John out to the main desk of the hospital, John caught people giving him strange looks. Pitying looks, nervous looks, confused looks. They would look away when they realized John had spotted them, but it didn't matter. The damage was done. John wished he could disappear. He didn't like those people looking at him. He felt judged, and out of place. He felt like a _freak._

"Sign here, please, Dr. Watson." The young secretary handed John a clipboard.

He signed his name and handed it right back, unable to meet her gaze.

"We'll need to see you back here in a week or so. I'll call you to schedule an appointment before then." the secretary smiled. "Take care."

John thanked her and managed a weak smile as well, not wanting to seem harsh. Sherlock wheeled him out of the hospital and hailed a taxi.

"Are you in any pain?" Sherlock asked on the way home.

"Not too bad. Yeah. Nothing a little rest can't fix." John said, watching the city rush past his window.

"And if you need anything you'll let me know, correct?" At this point Sherlock was starting to act more like a mother than a concerned friend.

"Of course." John nodded, giving his friend a rather sarcastic smile.

Sherlock took the hint. They rode the rest of the way home in comfortable silence. Once there, Sherlock pushed John into the lift, careful not to bump the wheelchair against anything.

When the door to the flat swung open, John heard Sherlock take in a sharp breath. He was slightly dumbfounded, or so it would seem. John wheeled himself in, still getting used to his new method of transportation.

"It's... cleaner than I expected, even from someone like you." Sherlock said as he walked about the flat.

"Someone like me, Sher?"

"Fastidious. It was always a bit annoying, really. You were so meticulous back then. But this... is really clean. Wherever did you find the time to clean the tiling?" Sherlock hadn't yet ceased his self-tour of the flat.

John had to bite his tongue to keep from making a snide comment. Sherlock may be a genius, but god, was he a fool sometimes.

"Mrs. Hudson may have had something to do with that." John said casually, wheeling himself into the kitchen, intending to make some much-needed tea.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock stopped mid-step.

"The landlady, Sherlock. Surely you haven't forgotten her."

"Of course I haven't forgotten her. I expected her to move, but I suppose, presently, it does make more sense that she would remain... here." Sherlock drew the last word out slightly, helping John put the kettle on.

"Let's invite her for tea, shall we?" Sherlock said suddenly.

John spluttered, looking at Sherlock with a confused, if not slightly worried, expression. He really was the worlds most ineffable genius.

"Sher, she thinks you're dead. She thinks _I'm_ dead. We can't just invite her for tea." John groaned. All this wheeling about had made him fatigued.

Sherlock waved his hand airily before opening the front door and promptly shouting for Mrs. Hudson.

"Problem solved." He said matter-of-factly.

John tried to keep a stern tone as he reprimanded Sherlock, but a smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth. The smile grew even larger when he heard a very Mrs. Hudson-like gasp from the doorway.

"Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes! You're- you're-"

"Alive and well, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock smiled, allowing the landlady to pull him into a tight hug.

"But I don't understand!" Mrs. Hudson held the detective at arms length, looking him over.

John wheeled into the room, a tray of tea balanced haphazardly on his lap.

"I've tried asking. He won't tell." John smirked.

"Ohhh!" Mrs. Hudson practically flew across the room, planting a smooch (there really was no other word) right on the side of John's face. She took a step back, taking in the sight of John. Her eyes roamed the wheelchair, and the several bruises and cuts that littered John's body.

"I've seen better days." John said, hoping to lighten the atmosphere.

"Yes... That tea will do you good." Mrs. Hudson took the tray from him, and began setting the table.

John cast a glance towards Sherlock. The detective was studying a portrait that John had hung on the wall. It was of the two of them from their first Christmas together. After Sherlock's 'death' it had taken John several months before he could look at the picture without being overcome with emotion.

Sherlock looked away from the picture, his eyes now fixated on John. A small smile came across the detectives face. As he passed by, he set a hand on John's shoulder, squeezing it, silently conveying his thoughts.

"I'm glad you're back, Sher." John said, a smile tugging his lips.


	2. Colossus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes to terms with the fact that he's wheelchair bound and is now viewed as an outsider. While home alone, he suffers a minor accident (it was his own fault, admittedly) and finds himself flat on his back. When Sherlock returns, after having a small meltdown of his own at John's foolishness, the pair make a discovery about John's condition.

"Careful, John!"  
  
"Watch out, John!"  
  
"Here, let me help you, John."  
  
It seemed those were the only things people said to him these days. What's worse: it was terribly easy to smile and say "I'm fine". He wanted to do things on his own and he certainly wasn't going to let a wheelchair stop him. He didn't view himself as helpless, neither should anyone else, despite the pitying looks he'd been getting.  
  
"Can I get you anything, John?"  
  
Sherlock's voice brought him back to reality, as it always had.  
  
"I'm fine, thanks." John said, the response almost automatic.  
  
Sherlock had taken to going to the store ever since John's accident. It was strange. John had never seen him do it before. Food generally just sort of _appeared_ , no questions asked. But now it was as if Sherlock were stockpiling for the apocalypse. There was food in every cabinet (not always good food, mind you), and Sher showed no signs of stopping. It was his way of caring for John.  
  
"Right. I'll be back later." Sherlock nodded, leaving the flat with some hesitation.  
  
Hesitation was another new thing for the detective. Normally, he was quite assertive. He got his way because he fought for it. Now, he was cautious, especially around John. While he still treated John essentially the same, the latter could see slight differences in Sherlock's behavior.  
  
Any time he was around John he spoke softer. His hands were either in his pockets or folded in his lap. His eyes refused to settle on any one particular object, and _never_ landed on John's wheelchair. It was as if there was something dirty about it, something they weren't supposed to talk about.  
  
John, who wished they _would_ talk about it, pushed himself into the kitchen, intent on making tea. It was one of the only things he felt he could truly control anymore. There were still times he felt dehumanized. He felt _different_. But the little things helped bring him back. He could almost forget he was in a chair sometimes. He could forget about the doctor's bills, the physical therapy, and the exclusion. That is, until someone asked if he needed help. Help was the last thing he wanted.  
  
He put the kettle on, searching for a box of tea. Even in this moment, as he realized the box was too high to reach, he refused to ask _anyone_  for help. He reached. He stretched. He struggled. If only his damned legs would bloody work.  
  
"Damn it!" John muttered to no one in particular.  
  
He heaved himself out of his chair, going against every instinct he had. He used the counter to support his weight as he grabbed the box of tea. _That_  was a mistake.  
  
He put just an inkling of weight on his legs and he crumpled. He fell to the floor like a rag-doll, feeling a searing pain shoot through his legs, radiating throughout him. The tea, his chair, and an assortment of kitchen objects clattered to the floor around his aching body. It hurt so bad, he didn't dare move. What a stupid idea that was. So stupid.  
  
John let out a groan as he reached for his phone. It had fallen out of his pocket and was now several feet from him. Of course it was. Why wouldn't it be? As if things couldn't go any more wrong. He let out an indignant grunt as he resigned himself to dragging his way across the floor. He prayed to god Mrs. Hudson didn't walk in as he did so.  
  
Finally, John's fingers gripped his phone. He rolled on his back, puffing slightly. That was too much work. Too bloody much.  
  
He sent a message to Sherlock. Short, concise.  
  
 _'Home. Now.'_  
  
Immediately after sending the message, John attempted to make himself presentable. He flipped his chair right side up, and cleaned up the spilled tea bags. He tossed things lazily onto the counter, brooding to himself as he did so.  
  
It took no more than two minutes before Sherlock nearly kicked the door down.  
  
"John! Where are you?" he shouted, stomping around the living room.  
  
John steeled himself.  
  
"Here," he said, "in the kitchen."  
  
Sherlock ran into the kitchen, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw John, sat pathetically on the floor.  
  
"John, what--"  
  
"Don't ask what happened. Just help me." John silenced Sherlock, holding a hand up.  
  
Sherlock let out a sigh, looking both relieved and annoyed. He reached down, picking John up. The latter wrapped his arms around Sherlock, his face glowing red. He shut his eyes, imagining he was in any other situation than this. He prayed to god, once again, that Mrs. Hudson didn't walk in.  
  
"Right." Sherlock cleared his throat, pulling away from John, who was now seated comfortably.  
  
"Yeah." John said, avoiding eye contact.  
  
"So...." Sherlock prodded.  
  
He wanted to know. It was understandable, but John knew if he told Sherlock what happened the detective would most definitely kill him.  
  
"It was nothing." John said, as nonchalantly as he could.  
  
"John, please. You're not _that_  clever. Obviously it was something." Sherlock stated flatly.  
  
John could feel the detective's eyes drilling into him, searching, reading, _knowing_.  
  
"I just wanted some tea." John sighed.  
  
Sherlock remained silent.  
  
"So... I put the kettle on and tried to reach the box. But I couldn't. So... I... I stood up and--"  
  
"You absolute bloody idiot." Sherlock snipped. "You absolute _bloody IDIOT!_ "  
  
"Yes, Sherlock, I know." John shrugged, expecting slightly more drama. He continued his story. "What happened was, I stood up to grab the tea, but my legs burned horribly and I fell...."  
  
"You're legs?" Sherlock asked, perking up.  
  
"Yes, Sherlock. My legs, useless things, they--"  
  
"Don't you see, John? You _felt_ something in your legs! That means they're not entirely ruined!" Sherlock explained, as excited as he'd ever been.  
  
John sat for a moment. The doctor had said he'd never walk again....  
  
"If you felt something it means the nerves are still functioning, which can only be a good thing and-- John, are you listening?" Sherlock babbled.  
  
John forced a smile and nodded.  
  
"This is great news, Sher." he said, but a weight was settling in the pit of his stomach.  
  
Of course he wouldn't walk again. Sure, he might feel things, but walking? No. Sometimes the odds are stacked too high. They're impossible to beat.  
  
"... And I really think you should work on building strength in your legs, John. That's the first step. I'll help you as much as I can." Sherlock continued his babbling, standing and pacing excitedly. (honestly, the little hop in his step was reminiscent to a prancing school boy.)  
  
Then, as suddenly as he was hopping around the room, Sherlock was kneeling in front of John, who was rather uncomfortable with the detective's current position.  
  
"Sher..."  
  
The detective was wearing his traditional 'thinking' face.  
  
"Sherlock." John said once more, drawing the detective out of his thoughts.  
  
"I'm just wondering, John... Can you feel this?" Sherlock set a hand on the army doctor's knee, looking at it as if waiting for something to happen.  
  
John tried his hardest to focus on feeling _something_. At first there was nothing. He felt nothing. But then, after a moment, there _was_  something.  
  
"I... I feel pressure. A little pressure. And it tingles a bit." John said.  
  
He was shocked, to say the least. He hadn't felt anything before. Not since he'd jumped. It didn't feel normal by any means. It felt as if his leg was asleep and the only place with feeling was where Sherlock's hand was. But as soon as the latter removed his hand all sensation left. No pressure, no tingles, no heat, no touch.  
  
Sherlock stood, smiling down on his friend.  
  
"Do you know what this means, John?"  
  
The army doctor, who had been staring intently at the place where Sherlock had touched him, now brought his gaze to meet the detective's.  
  
"What does it mean, Sher?"  
  
"It means," Sherlock beamed (it was a rather odd expression for him), "You're going to walk again. On your own two feet."  
  
Then Sherlock walked away on _his_ own two feet, no doubt off to make tea as John had mean to, and John was left alone to dwell on the possibilities.  
  
He didn't want to believe he could walk again. The doctor at the hospital had said it wouldn't happen. But at the moment, John thought, it was not beyond the realm of possibility that the doctor was wrong. John will walk someday.  
  
 _John will walk._


End file.
